But I could tell him that it was because of him, and because of what we’d agreed on, that I didn’t punch my ex in the balls from the get-go. If that wasn’t an achievement, I didn’t know what was. He would get it.
That’s what I was going to tell myself as I turned around slowly on the balls of my feet and looked up at the man who I had wasted so much of my time on. Tall but not as tall as Ivan, and with shoulders that weren’t as broad, with light brown hair and an almost tan complexion, handsome, sure… he was just like how I remembered him. It had been almost two years, after all.
Little fucking bitch.
“I don’t owe you shit,” I said up to him, sounding so calm I was honest to God proud of myself.
This buttfuck sighed as he ran a hand through his short hair and said, “Give me a break, Jas. We have history—”
Yep, I went from seeing red to seeing fucking magenta. “Yeah, that history ended the day I heard about you pairing up with Mary from someone who had read an article about it online.”
He flinched. Paul hesitated. Then he seemed to shake it off as he demanded, “What else was I supposed to do?” He shook his head, swallowed hard, and steeled his shoulders.
But it was pointless because he’d already pissed me off.
He wasn’t about to try and guilt trip me or intimidate my ass. “You could have told me like a normal human being that respected the person who had stuck with them for three years?” I snapped, barely managing not to yell at the reminder of what he had done to me. “I tried calling you, Paul, calling you and calling you, and you not once picked up, you fucker,” I spat. “You didn’t have the balls to warn me or explain shit, not once over the last two years.”
“It’s not—”
I gave him a look that I knew was my crazy expression. “If you fucking say that’s not what it’s like, I will punch you right now, on the dick, as hard as I can.”
He shut his mouth, because he knew I would.
But he’d broken this dam, and now he was going to have to live with it.
“I gave you three years of my life, Paul. Three. You were my partner, I would have done almost anything for you, and you treated me like a piece of shit. You just ran away and did what you wanted to do, without telling me. Don’t tell me I owe you anything. I don’t. I don’t owe you a single fucking thing,” I hissed at him, pointing my finger at him because there was no way I could keep my hand from doing something when all it really wanted to do was form a ball and break his nose or his dick.
“You make it seem like I could have just… told you. Like it would have been that easy,” he replied, his hand still caught in his hair, his expression twisted.
I blinked. “Yeah, it would have been that easy. Hey, Jasmine, I quit. I’m going to pair up with someone you can’t stand. Good luck,” I mocked, shaking my head. “Done.”
His laughter held a sharp edge. “That’s not how it would have gone, and you know it. You would’ve yelled at me, called me a quitter, a bitch, a pussy, all those things and more. You know you would have. You wouldn’t have let me leave that easily.”
You promised Ivan you wouldn’t do this. You promised.
And I had.
And that’s why I kept my hand at my side, still.
“Yeah, I would have. I would have done all of those things. We both know that. But you’re an idiot for not understanding why. I would have given you a hard time because we were in it together. Because we were a team, and I wouldn’t just give up on you like it was nothing. But you’re a grown-ass man that makes his own decisions. I wouldn’t have tied you up and forced you to stay. Give me a fucking break.”
The moment the words were out of my mouth, I was genuinely surprised by them. I don’t even think I had ever thought that way before. Much less felt that way.
But I had.
He’d hurt me, and I wanted him to know. I wanted him to know that I had cared about him. And I wasn’t above wanting him to know that I would have fought for him.
But that was two years ago.
One year ago, I would have wanted to beat the shit out of him. I would have been too prideful to ever admit any of this. But I wasn’t. Not anymore. At this point, all I wanted was to get this horrible guilt and anger I’d been suffering with off my chest. I wanted it out of my life. Out of me.
I wanted to move on. Maybe I already had. Mostly.
I still wanted to beat his ass, but I’d settle for making him regret the day he’d met me. The only way to do that was to kick the shit out of him and Mary on the ice. And I would. Ivan and I would.
“I cared about you too, Jasmine,” he said, making me roll my eyes. “I still care about you. When I heard about your sprain, I was worried. I wanted to call you, but… I couldn’t.”
Yeah, he got another eye roll for that shitty lie. “Okay.”
“You don’t understand….”
I raised my hands at my sides and let them fall right back down. “Okay, Paul. Tell me. Right now. What is it you want me to hear, huh? That you left me because you wanted a better chance at winning?”
This man gulped again, dragging his hand down his face and over the white and blue spandex bodysuit costume he had on. “Why do you always turn shit around? I miss you, Jas. I’ve picked up the phone to call you at least a dozen times….”
All I wanted was for him to shut. The. Fuck. Up.
“Honest to God, cross my heart and hope to die, I don’t want to talk to you anymore. Or ever again. Whatever you thought you felt, whatever excuses you’ve talked yourself into believing to justify the way you treated me… live with it. Deal with it. If you know me half as well as you think you do, you know I’m not ever going to forgive you.”
“Jasmine, I—”
“Nope. Don’t even bother. If you see my mom, run the other way. If you see me, turn around and pretend that you don’t,” I said to him, sounding oddly calm. “I would have forgiven you if you’d talked to me first. I would have forgiven you for saying all that shit you did about finding a partner you can ‘really work with.’ And I could have forgiven you eventually for shoving me out of your life. But I’m not going to. I’m not that good of a person.” I swept my eyes to the side, giving him my best blank expression and said, “You better go. I have shit to do, and I don’t want you as an audience.”
Paul Jones blinked. I’d swear maybe even his chin wobbled a little bit. But in that way that was his, he glanced away and sighed, pressing his lips together. “Jasmine, look—”
“Just go.”
“I just want to tell you—”
“I don’t care,” I said, giving him my back again.
He was so full of shit. Ugh.
“Do you even know why I never called you back any of those times you’d leave me voice mails cussing me out right after? Or that time you called me drunk months later, yelling at me?”
“I don’t know, and I don’t really care,” I told him, my voice even, almost robotic as I looked past him toward the door and prayed, prayed that Ivan was coming.
He frowned so deeply lines formed across his forehead. Those brown eyes sliced away from me before they came back. “Jasmine, it was because Ivan called me a week afterward and said he would ‘fuck me up’ if I ever contacted you again.”
The hell did he just say?
“Stop looking at me like you think I’m lying. I’m not. He called me and said that if I knew what was good for me, I would leave you alone, but if I didn’t, he was going to fuck me up so bad I would regret the day I ever decided to skate pairs.”
Ivan.
Ivan had said that? Done that? But that had been a year before we’d paired up, weeks after we’d flipped each other off in a hallway, I was pretty sure.
Ivan had done that?
“I also said that I’d destroy you. You missed that part,” a familiar voice piped up, making both of us turn to find Ivan peeking his head inside the room, the door barely cracked, hair perfectly gelled into place, his face shaved clean, everything about him bright and sparkling. And he was smiling. And holding red roses.
I loved him.